


Trade

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, Massage, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Himuro has found that when he’s stressed it’s his neck and shoulders that pick up the strain, that work themselves into knots of tension that take days of deliberate stretching to work out." Himuro has a knot in his neck and Murasakibara has strong hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=romy).



Himuro has a crick in his neck.

This isn’t particularly uncommon. Himuro has found that when he’s stressed it’s his neck and shoulders that pick up the strain, that work themselves into knots of tension that take days of deliberate stretching to work out. But while the ache may be familiar it’s also sharper than it often is, the variety of lancing hurt that pulls Himuro’s attention away from the movie he and Murasakibara are intended to be watching -- Murasakibara lying over the couch, Himuro sitting on the floor alongside it -- and brings his hand to press at the knot in a futile attempt to ease the muscle into comfort. He’s been working at it for nearly five minutes, grimacing at the hurt that resumes every time he stops, when a hand closes on his wrist, Murasakibara’s fingers overlapping his thumb by an inch as his hold tightens.

“Stop,” the other boy intones, drawling the command out into something petulant and irritated. “That’s distracting.”

“Sorry,” Himuro replies automatically, his hand drawing back from his neck with the force of Murasakibara’s casual pull. The angle is wrong for his shoulder, makes him hiss and flinch, and he has to twist to accommodate the other’s movement of his arm. “My neck hurts.”

“Hm,” Murasakibara offers without any suggestion of true interest. He pushes Himuro’s arm down, lets his grip on the other’s wrist go. “Stop moving so much.”

They lapse into silence again, the room quiet under the murmur from the television except for the foil crinkle of Murasakibara’s chip bag and the barely audible rhythm of their breathing tangling into white-noise background. Himuro can feel his neck tightening, his shoulder starting to ache dully in sympathy, is just thinking about leaving the room completely so he can go and find a heating pad when Murasakibara says, “Give me a soda, Muro-chin” from where he’s sprawled over the entire available surface of the couch.

It’s a simple request, perfectly in keeping with their usual interactions. Himuro doesn’t even think about refusing, just reaches out over the table for one of the unopened cans of soda on the far edge. It’s a stretch, his fingers reaching past cellophane wrappers and plastic containers, and then suddenly all he can see is hurt, the hissing gasp of pain on his lips as his neck stabs agony along his spine and starts to cramp.

“ _Ah_ ” and he’s rocking forward, his hand coming to press uselessly against the tension in the muscle. “ _Fuck_.” Everything hurts, the bright shock of pain too much to ignore; Himuro’s inhales feel like sobs, his eyes watering and throat closing in reaction to the sensation. He’s tipping forward, curling in on himself as if to offer himself protection from the pain, and then there’s pressure at his shoulder, weight crushing his fingers in against his neck and bearing him forward.

“Move,” Murasakibara orders from behind him, and Himuro draws his hand free to leave his shoulder to the other’s grip. Murasakibara’s fingers fit over his collarbone, brace the other’s grip against his shoulder, and then there’s a thumb digging into the side of his neck, pressure driving in against the knot and offering relief so intense it gusts Himuro’s breath out of his lungs in a sudden startled rush.

“ _Oh_ ,” he blurts, his spine curving him forward over his knees into involuntary submission to the press of Murasakibara’s fingers. “ _Jesus_.”

“Quiet,” Murasakibara says, the distant order of some omnipotent being, and pushes harder. Himuro has to throw a hand out to brace himself against the floor, has to breathe in the gaps between Murasakibara’s movements, but the pressure is dissolving the knots in his neck and along his shoulder, leaving the aftereffect of relief even though the motion itself is too intense for him to do anything but groan through it.

“Quiet,” Murasakibara repeats as he shifts on the couch, moves to bring his other hand in against Himuro’s neck. “Take your shirt off.”

It takes Himuro a moment to respond. The weight against his shoulders is crushing him into satisfaction, whiting out any coherency in his thoughts into the uncontrolled spill of air escaping too-fast from his lungs. Finally Murasakibara lets him up for a moment, loosens the hold of his hands, and Himuro can think long enough to fumble for the hem of his shirt and drag the fabric up over his head. The collar catches at his hair, ruffles the strands up off his forehead, but Murasakibara’s hands are back, warm against the bare skin of his back now, and Himuro curls in helplessly under the contact, whining relief as Murasakibara’s hands force the tension out of his body.

“You’re too loud, Muro-chin,” Murasakibara says as his thumbs slide against Himuro’s spine and press him down against his knees. “I can’t hear the movie.”

“Sorry,” Himuro manages. Murasakibara is sliding back up to his shoulder again, wrapping his fingers into an unshakeable hold to steady Himuro in place as he works his knuckles in against the other’s spine. “It-- _hh_ \--it just feels really good.”

“Be quiet,” Murasakibara says again, as if he hasn’t heard a thing Himuro is saying.

Himuro does his best. Pressing a hand to his mouth helps -- both together helps more -- but it still sounds loud in his ears, the involuntary moan of relief pushing itself past his throat without any control on his part. At least it seems to be enough, or enough that Murasakibara doesn’t stop, and if Himuro misses the last half of the movie for the complete distraction of the experience, by the time Murasakibara declares that he’s tired, suggests “Let’s go to bed” with the tone of an order, Himuro is so limp and pleasure-hazy that he judges it a trade well worth making.


End file.
